Winner Takes All
by LadyNRA
Summary: The Warehouse 13 crew faces the fight of their lives. Rated T for gore. If such things squick or nauseate you, you might want to avoid this story. One shot, complete.


**Title: **Winner Takes All

**Author: **LadyNRA

**Rating: **T (for blood and guts and gore)

**Spoilers: **None that I can think of

**Characters: **Artie, Pete and Myka

**Genre: **Action/Adventure

**Disclaimer: **The producers and Syfy may own it but if they are willing to sell Artie to me, I'll come up with the cash somehow!

**Summary: ****The****Warehouse 13 crew ends up in the fight of their lives****.**

**Author's Note: ****This started out as a weird dream I had one night last month and I was encouraged to expand upon it. Purely action/adventure sans artifacts. ****If somewhat graphic descriptions of gore squicks you, best to pass over this one. **Any mistakes are mine...

Winner Takes All

By LadyNRA

The warehouse was dingy, cluttered with filthy boxes along its perimeter. It also stank of sweat and fear. Voices, muted and tremulous or gruff and garrulous, permeated the air. Bodies of varying sizes and shapes shifted or shuffled in the center of the room, kicking up dust or displacing airborne particles which then reflected weak sunlight filtering down from yellow multi-paned windows high overhead. Several of the individuals in the room glanced up searchingly at those semi-translucent panes as if something marvelous lay on the other side, but others looked up, bodies tense and cringing, as if they knew better.

The floor muffled their movements. It was in a tile pattern, repeating squares, concrete bordered by what looked like rebar or some other form of metal. Most had noted the floor but then ignored it after their numb minds considered that feature to be no cause for concern or a source of answers.

Any doors in the structure were locked up tight. Pete Lattimer and Myka Bering, as well as many others, had already double and triple checked the building for any likely form of egress. It took no time at all to determine that most of them had been drugged in some manner, then transported to their current location, where they'd all be unceremoniously dumped into the middle of the room. That hadn't been all. Pete, the talkative one, he discovered upon awakening that his arms bore thick leather bands with small studs on them, most of them sharp. His shirt, he realized, was sleeveless, exposing muscles he was downright proud of…under other circumstances. All of them wore vaguely similar clothing. Sleeveless or short sleeved shirts, loose fitting cargo pants with plenty of pockets, sturdy hiking boots, and an array of gauntlets of varying sizes and styles, most of them menacing in appearance.

"Major bad vibeage," he stated unnecessarily. He breathed out heavily, nearly a whistle, and searched for his partner and supervisor.

Sporting another shirt similar to Pete's, Myka edged through the crowd, trying to pick up any glimmer of useful information. When Artie Nielsen, their boss, returned from his own fact-finding expedition, he was clearly unhappy and equally uncomfortable. Sweat trickled down his temples. He swiped at it in irritation as if this was a common occurrence, even though that was far from the truth. Then he flinched and grimaced as the spikes on his wrist-to-mid-forearm leather gauntlet left a thin bloody line on his upper cheekbone.

Pete, as was his custom, was about to pat his supervisor comfortingly on the shoulder, but that was not a wise idea. The short sleeved tight fitting garment Artie wore bore additional sharp studs of varying sizes on his shoulders. Instead, Pete thumped him on the back, and muttered, "Don't worry, we'll figure out how to get out of here."

Artie threw a distrusting look at Pete, who was ever the optimist. The younger man had no respect for mortal danger until he was actually in the midst of it, and only his 6th sense or sheer luck, or quick reflexes had saved him in the past. Well, having the good fortune to have Myka by his side certainly didn't hurt. On the other hand, Artie had some better than average instincts of his own, ones honed by 30 years of survival in one of the most dangerous jobs in the world. And the truth was that he really didn't share Pete's optimism in this case. He flexed his shoulders, unhappy with the fit of the shirt, as if it had been intended for a thinner man, but he left it alone. There was no alternative. His own clothes, just like his companions', were nowhere to be seen.

Finally, he roughly pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose then he pierced both of his fellow agents with a look of steel. "Let's be realistic here. It may look like we're headed to a…" he stopped, eyes growing duller as he searched for the word Claudia would use, "…a rave. But when whatever happens happens, I'm fairly certain Industrial Dancing, isn't what everyone will be doing."

"Really, Artie?" Myka gave him 'the look', those green eyes growing larger and more frustrated. "I was hoping for a more constructive suggestion from you, not one of Pete's quips."

"Hey!" Pete gave her a mock-insulted glare.

Looking up at the three walls of dull, tinted windows, Artie shook his head. "There are only two doors. Both are locked…from the outside. We are all dressed for…shall I state the obvious…either a techno rave like I said, or something worse. I may dislike techno but I can assure you I'd rather get decibel induced deafness and severe back pains dancing to it than experience the alternative."

Edging closer, Pete said, "Which is?"

"Look at us!" Artie held out his leather arm bands. Clearly he wasn't willing to give voice to suspicions but Myka suspected it wasn't because he was afraid. More likely he was mentally gearing up and not in the mood to waste energy on wild speculations.

At that moment, there was a reverberating, grating shriek of metal and a thin crack of sunlight appeared on the far side of the dimly lit, crowded chamber. Most of the individuals inside, the Warehouse Agents among them, threw their hands up to shield their eyes.

"Bad times a-comin'", Pete informed them, his extra sense screaming bloody murder at him, which, Pete thought, was probably what lay before them. Then he did what he always did to quell his rising fear, he spouted a movie quote. "Toto, I've got a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore."

Artie merely grunted, although whether from displeasure or acknowledgement, Pete couldn't tell. Beside them, Myka was tensing, nostrils flared, partially crouching as if ready to spring away from danger.

By the time the doors were fully open, most of their eyes were adjusting to the brightness but every soul held hostage in that place refused to move a muscle, except to glance with terrified expressions at those nearest them. Their looks said it all, "What next?" and "What do you think is going to happen to us?"

They didn't have long to wait. Overhead, there was a low humming which rapidly shifted to crackling noises. All heads immediately tilted up. Tendrils of light arced from nearly invisible wires up near the roof line. Ozone permeated the air as the hissing and popping continued. Lines of arcing, blinding light moved from wire to wire then one of those thin lines of light shot down to the floor. Someone caught in the way had his arm pierced by the thin beam of light. He shrieked, his voice ear-splitting. The stench of seared flesh and smoke wafted over the crowd as the man clutched the arm to his belly, while he began an unceasing moan.

Around him milling people began to scream or holler as they surged toward the open door. More threads of lightning flashed toward the floor and two people were struck down before they could get out of the way. Their steaming corpses stared lifelessly at the source of their demise.

En masse, the remaining people in the room plunged toward the opening. Their fear of the unknown was definitely dampened by knowledge of what awaited them if they hung back.

A brilliant flash and loud 'thwack!' sounded just off Pete's shoulder. Artie, displaying an astounding amount of speed, jumped out of the way just in time, although he wasn't totally unsinged. The tips of a few curls sparked orange, and Myka rapidly brushed the ashy remains of those hairs toward the floor.

"Thanks!" he bellowed as he grabbed her elbow and yanked her toward the sunlight. Rarely slow on the upswing when imminent danger threatened, Pete dashed after them less than a second later.

The herd of terrified 'cattle' found themselves in a long chute made of multiple rows of barbed and razor wire. A few suicidal folks ahead of the crowd had attempted to scale it and were in the process of bleeding out, several of them still strung up by partially torn skin, ligaments, and muscle. A group of more aggressive males surged ahead toward a huge gate constructed of enormous tree trunks. They pounded on the door but it refused to budge.

Then, from all around them, unseen speakers blared. The voice was what every TV program's directors wanted to promote their products. Deep, smooth, riveting, charismatic.

"Welcome to Winner Takes All. You have been brought here to participate in the unparalleled joys of armed combat. The rules are simple. When the gates open you will find an assortment of hand weapons. Take what you need or can obtain. Combat is to the death."

Someone in the crowd, a woman, cried out in anguish and unmitigated terror. A man next to her took the initiative to take her down with a meaty fist. The woman collapsed into a limp pile of flesh.

The voice went on as if he hadn't observed any of this. "No one is your friend. Only one survives but he…or she…will win a treasure trove fit for a king. And so I say to you all…may you know the thrill of victory."

Bodies began to surge backward as the wooden gate swung their way. In the middle of the crowd, Artie, Pete and Myka couldn't see anything but more timber. They glanced at each other, wordlessly determined to stick together no matter what the rules were.

Several large men were already plunging through the gate, clearly hoping to grab as many weapons as possible before anyone else could get them. They must have succeeded because screams were already wafting backward as the victims, unwillingly pushed from behind, were facing their slayers and falling before them.

"Forget the weapons," Artie hollered, just loud enough to be heard by his companions. "Head along the wall away from the melee."

"But we won't stand a chance if we're unarmed!" Pete's voice was tight and despite his considerable courage, he looked anything but brave at that moment.

Artie dragged him close so he wouldn't have to shout…too much. "Let them slaughter each other. We aren't without resources." He gave Myka a meaningful glance and she nodded in understanding. Her martial arts skills were considerable. "Once we take a few down we can take their weapons."

And then they were through the doors into what appeared to be a football sized arena. A large number of terror-stricken people were before them. Sunlight flashing off bladed weapons as red diamond droplets of viscous fluid sprayed skyward and the copper scent of spilled blood permeated the air.

As one, the trio dashed toward the far left of the arena, followed by a few who probably overheard Artie's suggestion or maybe were just too terrified to fight and wanted to get as far from the action as possible. Pete didn't blame them for wanting to eek out a few more moments of life before the unthinkable happened.

Myka's keen eyes took in the action and the surroundings with lightning quickness. She assessed the height of the walls and their construction. Large trees, stripped of bark, had obviously been felled, virtually intact, to form the enclosure. Tops and bottoms were sawn off, as were small branches, and then put in the ground, so close together there was no way to see what lay outside the walls. This structure went clear around the arena once the doors were closed. There was no other exit. At least none that was obvious to the eye. The walls were at least 10 feet tall. She saw one very tall guy try to grab the edge to jump over but he couldn't make it past that. He jerked and writhed then dropped. Dead. His hands a fried mess.

"They've electrified the top of the fence!" she yelled toward her two fellow agents.

"No good," Pete observed as he ducked a knife wielding assailant. Myka put him down with a kick to the chin.

The sunlight continued to glint off of flashing blades or blood encrusted clubs and maces. More and more bodies were dropping amid screams of pain or grunts of surprise as lucky blows landed. Victims and early victors were dropping either by attack from the front or backstabbing.

The bellowing crowd of combatants drifted toward Pete and his group. The agents shifted away from them hoping to maintain a safe distance. As if reading their minds, the bloodied warriors fanned out. Some people, male and female alike, continued to attack each other but several fixated on the unarmed men and one woman in front of them.

"I don't have to remind you that all's fair in love and war, do I?" Artie assumed a crouch similar to Myka's, his fists raised.

"And this is war," confirmed the female agent, drawing her full lips into a determined line.

"Amen, sister," crowed Pete as he grabbed a fist wielding a hatchet. The worry lines in his forehead dissipated and morphed into an almost happy expression as hatchet guy felt his wrist bones break with a satisfying crunch.

"Oh yeah!" Pete slammed a right jab into the next guy's nose. Similar crunching noises ensued as the man's nose broke, followed by much spurting blood. As the guy dropped his weapon and struggled to decide what to soothe first…nose or wrist, Myka breezed past, delivering a knee to the guy's groin, before continuing on. His opponent definitely down for the count, Pete snatched up the hatchet and looked at it.

Fist fights were one thing but he really wasn't sure he could kill a guy this way. He always opted to avoid violence if he could, and do the least amount of damage if he couldn't. Whatever was necessary to stop the fight. He'd never whacked a guy with a hatchet, let alone intentionally stabbed anyone with a knife. Heck, the only time that had happened was his brief battle with Father Adrian, and that guy had originally held the knife. Adrian's original demise, according to Artie, had been more of a fluke as Pete had presumably twisted the blade around while they fought in the elevator. Of course, he didn't remember that event thanks to a time reset and he was VERY grateful for that.

"Pete, look out!" Myka yelled, pulling Lattimer back from his brief journey down memory lane.

His adversary, a guy with gorilla arms, was trying to hack his head off his shoulders with a gladius. The attempt failed, fortunately, as Artie stepped in from the side and grabbed the man's head, slamming it onto his raised knee. The guy went down like a sack of potatoes. Another man, barely taller than Artie, with an ax in hand, got an elbow to the eye. His ax was then ripped from his hand and subsequently raised as another swordsman tried to sink his blade right into Artie's skull. It landed on the haft of the ax, and Artie used the blunt end to thump the man's skull. Artie's adversary grunted once, his knees buckling. Then he was being trampled underfoot as more people turned their attention to the three agents.

"Retreat!" Artie dashed off, fully expecting the other two Warehouse agents to follow. They didn't disappoint him. Myka and Pete were more fit than Artie and easily caught up to him. Panting and swearing between each breath, they arrived at another clear spot in the arena. But the reprieve was short-lived. Several others came around to confront them.

Myka took down a thin man with a badly pockmarked face and sneering grin. She felt no remorse whatsoever as she yanked his rapier out of his hands and sent it into the chest of another attacker who had a similar weapon but clearly no skill in using it.

Next to her, Pete swung his hatchet at the neck of the guy. His blood chilled to a temperature just above absolute zero as it opened the guy's jugular and most of his neck with it. The victim gurgled as another mouth opened under his jaw. But Pete was already moving on as he was overcome with the urge to take down anyone trying to harm him or his friends.

"Crush! Kill! Destroy!" he yelled as he took down several opponents in quick succession. Nearby, Myka rolled her eyes. Although she was a true blue A #1 bookworm as a kid, even she'd seen reruns of Lost In Space. What she couldn't believe was how, in the midst of this carnage, he couldn't help quoting something from a TV show.

Drawing in gasping breaths, Artie managed to hack off the hand of one gargantuan man as it clawed toward him, then he pivoted slightly, on the same swing and drove the ax blade into and clear through the stomach of the fighter next to him. Steaming entrails boiled out and splattered to the ground. A horrible shriek sliced through the air and the man used his bloodied hands to try stuffing his guts back inside without success.

Turning a startling shade of green, Artie wheeled away from his latest victim, and with a loud grunt of exertion, lopped off the head of another burly aggressor. The head plopped and rolled around in the torn up grass and dry dirt, sightless eyes revealing fear as if he'd realized he'd met his match just before the blade had ended his miserable life. That sight didn't help Artie's state of mind. He dry heaved once then collected himself. He'd seen worse, heaven knew, although he'd never been the one dealing out death like this. Recovering swiftly, he took on several others, while Pete and Myka battled around him.

"Danger! Danger, Artie Nielsen!" hollered Pete as he shouldered Artie aside as a woman tried to sneak up behind his boss. He easily put her flat onto her back with a snap kick. Then deftly pivoting, he planted the tip of his hiking boot into the most exquisitely sensitive spot of a hulking black guy coming directly at him. The guy turned green and collapsed, hands clutching at his groin.

All around them people continued to scream and die.

The younger Warehouse agents were drenched in blood by then though little of it was their own. A few shallow cuts had donated some of their own blood to the mess but nothing was serious.

Another woman with a long knife tried to stab Myka in the eye. "Bad move," she told the buxom blond who snarled menacingly. Anger surged. "Hasta la vista, baby!" she said in as deep a voice as she could muster. In the next second, she backhanded the woman's pretty face with her studded gauntlet. The woman shrieked in pain as blood and broken teeth splattered outward. Curling her fingers into a tight fist, she hit her again, hoping the blond would stay down.

"You go girl!" Pete crowed.

There were more outcries to their left as Artie's ax, swung like he'd morphed into a barbarian, was hewing down whoever got close. But Myka noticed the sweat pouring off him. Nor did she miss his wide open mouth as he desperately tried to replenish oxygen into starved lungs and blood stream. He staggered as another whippet-thin older teen ducked under the swinging ax. The boy lashed out with his short spear driving the tip into the fleshy part of Artie's outer thigh. By then, all Nielsen could do was grunt. As the kid closed in for the kill, Myka finished him off before he even knew what was happening.

"Can't…do…this much…longer." Artie hunched over trying to draw in a deeper breath. "Not in…shape…like I was."

"Was he ever?" Pete whispered to Myka.

Artie wrapped both arms across his ample middle without actually dropping the ax. Then he glared at Pete, "I…heard that!"

Myka just shrugged expansively to avoid commenting. However, she'd seen photos. And she knew the truth. Artie probably had a boatload of stamina in his youth, how else could he have effectively functioned as an agent, but he'd never been truly 'thin'. Added years and additional pounds hadn't helped.

"Huddle," she shouted and made a grab at Pete to catch his attention. "Look, we need to give him," she gestured at Artie, "a chance to catch his breath." She maneuvered her boss between herself and the wall.

"Aye, aye, cap'n!" Pete saluted her and assumed a similar position beside her.

With Artie drawing in great gulps of air behind them, both agents became a blur of motion, arms flying, weapons flashing, feet connecting every chance they got. Limbs went sailing or bodies crumpled if they were successful but kills weren't always possible and those individuals, if they were lucky not to be slain by others, were getting back up again.

Although it felt like an hour, Myka estimated less than ten minutes had passed before most of the individuals locked in the warehouse with them were either down for the count or deceased. Some heartless or desperate stragglers were checking pulses to make sure fallen people were permanently out of it. If not, a quick jab to the chest ended that problem.

Less than twenty people remained but that was still too many for the three agents to handle if all of them charged at once. For some reason the trio became the focus of a group of about eight combatants. Eight very large, aggressive and competent fighters to be precise.

The head of Artie's ax appeared between a slouching Pete and drooping Myka. He shouldered his way through them until all three of them were side by side.

"There's gotta be a better way to do this," Pete muttered.

Myka nodded quickly and shot a quick look at Artie. "Pete's right. The odds are still against us."

"I'm open to suggestions." He clenched the shaft of the ax until his knuckled whitened.

"We need to get over that wall," supplied Myka.

Pete snorted. "You'd be crispy crittered if you tried. And last time I looked, there was nothing to pole vault with."

The group approaching the agents halted for a few seconds, studying their defensive line and the resolute expressions on their faces. But the warehouse agents knew this wouldn't last. In fact, they'd probably start advancing soon. Taking down the three agents was, at that moment, presumably easier pickings for them than trying to go after each other.

Undaunted by the wall of flesh before them, Myka's face brightened. "Pete, look, the wall is only ten feet high. If you could give me a monster boost, I just might be able to vault over without touching whatever power lines are running up there.

"Too risky." Artie waved the idea away. "But I've got another idea." Just as he said that one of the crowd decided to test their resolve to stay alive. The man, black and very muscular, took a short sword and poked at Artie, testing for reactions. He got what he asked for. Instead of withdrawing, Artie took a few steps forward and with a powerful, circular motion, planted the ax blade into the guys ribs. The dark skinned man's weapon, poised to block, had proven to be useless. More blood spilled to the ground, more dust wafted into the air as his body fell, and his fluids further added to the already odious stench pervading the arena.

Once more the group hesitated. It would only be moments before they got wise and decided to charge all at once.

Bending down, Artie scooped up a long sword, hefting it, checking for balance. He honestly had no idea what good balance was or how it should feel, but it didn't matter. The eyes watching them grew a bit more concerned. Feet shuffled. Their hesitation is what he wanted, buying him just a little more time.

He handed the ax off to Myka as he raised the recently purloined blade. Out of the side of his mouth he said to both of them. "Do what Myka suggested. Boost her up. And Myka, it's obvious they've run wires along the top edge of the stockade to electrocute escapees. To put a stop to that, I want you to take the ax and when Pete has gotten you high enough, hack at the wires with the ax. The wood shaft should provide momentary protection. Once the connection is severed, you should be able to get over it and you can find a way to get us out. I'm trusting you to figure out what that might be. In the next sixty seconds or so."

Then he changed his stance to face his attackers, blade held at the ready.

Behind him Pete put his hands out to hold Myka's booted foot. With a heave and a cry of effort, Myka flew upward and the ax slammed down into the wood. There was a loud sizzling noise and the smell of burning wires for a split second but nothing after that. Moving nearly as fast as she could think, she left the ax where it was embedded, and grabbed the top of the stockade. Although she felt the wires beneath her palms, she didn't receive any shocks.

Drawing in a full breath, she hauled herself up and over the fence. Artie spared a glance over his shoulder to see how it was going while Pete, wasting no time, already resumed his place at Artie's side. "I'd kill for a drink right now!" Pete told him, his tone perfectly serious.

"If we survive this, I just might join you. Who would you suggest we kill for that drink?" replied Artie in a lighter tone.

"The Goldberg guy on the far right?"

Artie hiked an eyebrow at Pete's choice. "For me or you?"

"Know how to use that sword?"

"Not as well as I know how to swing an ax."

Pete widened his stance and raised his hatchet. "Then you can have Goldberg. I'm gonna take whoever else comes at us. And if you survive your guy, you can join me."

"Sounds fair," Artie quipped. He set his shoulders and once again brought up his blade.

Rather than charging all at once, half the group advanced on the pair of agents. Artie and Pete, via a lot of dodging and weaving, took out two of the people. Pete hacked at one, withdrew his hatchet blade, kicked in the knee of another guy and as he fell, he brought his blade down on the back of the fighters neck. The Goldberg clone lumbered toward Artie and instead of directly attacking him, he pretended to 'slide into home', feet first. Goldberg instinctively jumped up to keep his private parts from being sliced off as Artie passed but instead he wound up hamstrung. Screaming in agony, he collapsed and writhed while Artie ended his suffering, at least for a time, with a swift kick to the face.

The others, however, had finally gotten smart and were circling around them, encircling the agents on all sides. Pete and Artie immediately went back to back. And then they heard it. A bass rumble that grew louder. Beneath their feet, they felt the ground tremble. Instinctively, everyone looked down, then around. All the remaining fighters were pausing, unsure whether or not this was part of some diabolical plan to excite whatever TV audiences or gambling establishments were watching.

Not, Artie decided, as his head swiveled back toward the fence. "Run!" he hollered to Pete. The younger agent bolted toward the right, following the inner edge of the stockade.

Less than three seconds later the wooden pillars bounced inward, allowing some background images to flow through. But the fence didn't come down completely. More rumbling ensued, first growing more distant then approaching again. The next assault took the tree trunks down most of the way and an enormous vehicle as large as, and more heavily armored, than a tractor trailer idled before them. Neither Pete nor Artie needed to know who was in the cab or to be told to 'get in'.

As fast as their tired legs would carry them, they climbed into the cab. Outside the fence no gun fire greeted them but there were signs of armed guards. Or previously armed guards to be precise. On the ground, several black clad individuals sprawled, unconscious, with capture nets and pole snares near to where they'd been 'taken down' by a very irate Myka. Most bore hand guns but it didn't look like they'd tried to use them.

"They wanted to catch me and toss me back over the fence," Myka hissed through gritted teeth when she saw Pete staring at the downed men.

"Imagine that," Pete replied in a playful tone. "Looks like they ran into the wrong girl…woman." He was thrown forward slightly as Myka threw the vehicle into reverse and gunned it.

Just as they'd backed fully outside, a barrage of bullets pelted the metal of the cab. Uniformed men poured out of doorways recessed into an enormous boxlike structure set a short distance from the arena. They swarmed like angry black bees, trying to stop the trio from leaving. But Myka had had enough. Instead of detouring onto the grassy area around the arena or crashing into parked cars, she hit the gas and dove right into the main body of armed guards. There'd been plenty of death today, she reasoned silently, so why not a little more. Most of them managed to jump clear but a few weren't so lucky.

The wheels thumped over several bodies as they drove toward the only visible exit. It was quite a distance but they didn't waste time moving in that direction.

From behind them, other fighters were bursting through the breach in the fence like their pants were on fire. But that wasn't exactly the situation. Instead, the stadium was on fire. Geysers of flame shot at least twenty feet high as if the field had been rigged with flame throwers imbedded in the ground with the intent to incinerate everything inside. Voices were screaming…loudly.

"Oh my god!" Artie gasped, totally shocked. "This must be a contingency plan in case someone succeeded in getting over the wall. They're burning the evidence." His tone was hushed and yet gruff with tightly restrained anger. They all understood. The incinerated bodies would be disposed of cleanly as soon as possible with no one on the outside any wiser and with no indication of what the property owners were doing. The few escapees still in the parking lot would end up dead. They were sure of it.

Myka intentionally drove through security gates and into oncoming traffic which ultimately resulted in some fender benders that effectively blocked the exit to the parking lot.

Once he was sure they were in the clear, at least temporarily Artie drew in a deep breath, "First order of business?" Artie asked. He had his own ideas but wanted their input anyway.

"Figure out where we are," suggested Pete helpfully.

"Missouri," Artie and Myka informed him with the verbal equivalent of an eye roll.

Pete could only give them a quizzical glance.

Sighing deeply, Artie explained, "License plates on the vehicles." He did a quick scan of the gauges. "And with the gas gauge only half full and this thing probably getting two miles per gallon, it won't get us far."

Remembering Artie's original question, Myka spoke up. "We need to ditch the truck for something inconspicuous, beg, borrow or steal some shopping money because I refuse to drive home like this!" She gestured at her blood soaked clothing and face then made circular motions with her index finger to include her companions. "Get a cell phone and make some calls to Mrs. Frederic to alert her to what is going on at that place. Make sure we weren't followed then plan a safe route back to the Warehouse."

"Stop at Applebee's for a mushroom Swiss burger with a huge side of onion rings, a big chef's salad, and an enormous piece of cheesecake." Pete paused to salivate over it a second. "Oh, and a triple thick chocolate shake."

"Pete!" Myka blurted. She didn't need to explain why she sounded exasperated.

"What? I'm hungry. Slaying a horde of barbarians really made me work up an appetite, okay?"

Artie looked at him solemnly. "They were people like us, unwillingly thrown into hell for someone else's pleasure with no choice left but to fight or die. Hardly a joking matter."

Suitably chastised, Pete leaned back against his seat while keeping one eye on the side mirror. Suddenly, his stomach growled, long and loud. He turned imploring puppy-dog eyes on his companions.

Artie threw his hands up in surrender as his own stomach joined in. "Fine. Fine! Car, cash, clean-up, cell phone. And to save time we'll call Mrs. Frederic from Applebee's."


End file.
